


Masks and Fantasies

by Mirabai0821



Series: Agony and Ecstasy [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ASMR, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Come Marking, Costume Parties & Masquerades, D/s relationshp, Dirty Talk, Domme!Evelyn, Domme!Vivienne, F/M, Fetish Balls, Knifeplay, Multi, Other, Rope Bondage, Subspace, Switching, Wax Play, brief glimpses of Dom!Cullen, co-domming, co-subbing, dildoes, misogynoir, other cameos - Freeform, spot the fetish win a prize, sub!cullen, vanilla sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-21 04:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6038853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirabai0821/pseuds/Mirabai0821
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vivienne suggests her friends go to a Fetish Ball.</p><p>The group agrees.</p><p><b>Very nice</b> experiences are had.</p><p>Edit: Chapter 2 finally posted!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Domina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domina/gifts), [miraphora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraphora/gifts).



> The Gang goes to a Fetish Ball! This is only the first part!  
> thanks to Domina and miraphora as always for their help.

Vivienne insists, really insists.

They all make the jokes. That when Madame De Fer asks for something, it’s a polite request. When she requests, it becomes a demand. But if she _insists_ … decline at your mortal peril.

But actually, this insistence of her’s, wasn’t quite so bad, not even to his _mostly_ conservative ears.

“When?” Evelyn asks from behind a glass of wine, Vivienne’s asked them to a private dinner in her solar, Dorian and Iron Bull are present too. And after the pleasantries and the gentle ribbing about the progress of everyone’s relationships were out of the way, the Madame unfurls a letter etched in gold flake and sealed in deep purple wax bearing a curious design of a leafless tree. A discerning eye would see the bodies of lovers entwined, hidden in the negative spaces of the branches.

“First Saturday in August, continues on to the following Monday.”

Dorian laughs, one born of true humor and not his usual dry sarcasm. “And here I thought all you Southerners were repressed. A fetish ball in Val Royeaux, the seat of your Chantry’s power, within spitting distance of All Soul’s Day? I don’t know whether to be impressed or scandalized. I wonder how the Blessed Lady feels about all this? All that flesh cavorting about so close to one of the holiest days of the year.”

“Perhaps that’s why the date was chosen Master Pavus. There are some who believe that humanity is closest to our Maker during the communion of the flesh.”

Bull’s chuckle rumbles, warming all four of his friends, “Well there’s only one of us here actually communing with the divinely blessed so why don’t he tell us? You feeling anything ‘special’ over there Other Boss? The Herald got you seein’ Andraste?”

“Yes.”

“I am not divine!”

They answer synchronously, Evelyn and Cullen, then take very long pulls of their wine while the rest laugh.

“Besides,” Vivienne continues cutting a mirthful glance Evelyn’s way. “The Ball really isn’t for having copious amounts of sex with anonymous partners. Sure there are rooms set aside for such things but it's more to it than that. Think of it like….” Vivienne searches for the correct word hoping to find the right one to pique four very divergent interests. “Think of it as a sexy...” 

And Bull is hooked.

“Private.”

That catches Dorian.

“Eclectic.” 

Evelyn sits up.

“Learning experience.” 

Cullen hums thoughtfully.

“And I really must _insist_ you all go. You’ll love it.”

**

There are rules. 

Masks are to be work at all times, to protect the identity of the attendees. And it really wasn’t so much about keeping what Duke or Marquess likes putting What Where a secret, and more of that Duke used to favor this Marquess but now he favors the Comte over there. Surely the participants _know_ who’s under what, but with masks in play, one really couldn’t call out another and remain in good taste. Identities and most importantly _feelings_ are preserved this way.

Bull’s chest tightens upon seeing Dorian in his choice of headgear, a mask that covers him from the forehead to the tip of his nose, stretching to his temples and wider still ending in two ram’s horns that curl about the ears. Black, all black, edged in gold glitter filigree, hoops hanging from the tips of his horns like earrings. His eyes glow, a silver storm raging behind the black mask and the black kohl he’s rimmed around them. He’s beautiful--and that’s a Dorian thing to be-- beautiful, heart and all.

“Woulda figured you for a snake guy or a peacock even.” He tries, ultimately fails, to keep the emotion from thickening his voice, making it chunky and choking, caught up in his throat.

Dorian’s fingers brush the half mask Bull wears. It bisects his face on a bias curling over his nose, an oval depression but no hole where his ruined eye lay. No embellishments mark the body of this mask, it is plain but well made, silver gilt. “No,” Dorian drags his fingertips where the hard bone of Bull’s horns erupt from the thick and calloused but sensitive flesh. When his other lovers reached for his horns it was always to grab and hold, a prop of him--a fetish satisfied-- ‘Ride the Bull’ complete with built in handgrips. When Dorian reaches it was always to touch, to feel, to know, to learn.

The qunari shudders and gives serious consideration to spending the first night of the ball pinning Dorian to every available surface, but the mage breaks the silvery film of the moment with an old standby. “I’m a horny guy.”

They lovers share a laugh and the tension whistles away.

Cullen scoffs at his mask, grinding his teeth together, mumbling something uncouth about _Orlesians_ before tying the red string behind his ears, affixing a lion’s mask to his face. The mask is wood carved from walnut a deep golden brown, bloodstone set into the grooves that define the eyes and the snout, summerstone set into the mane. He doesn’t gripe too loudly, unable to be so displeased when Evelyn is looking at him with such unashamed joy. He’s attended balls and weddings and summits, he’s been stuffed in several kinds of regalia thinking it no more than a nuisance--too much when a simple doublet and breeches will do. But in her eyes, he feels _handsome_ , he never feels handsome.

“Help me,” she asks with this light and airy tone, suggesting pure innocence that is anything but. She sweeps her curtain of vines aside so his fingers can get at the strings that lace close the back of her dress. The ties rest just above the swell of her ass and he notices too late these ties do nothing for the function for the dress and everything for its form. A black ribbon waits for him to lace, to tie her closed like a present to be teased apart later. His fingers brush against her skin, against a tender welt still healing.

“Evelyn?” His question is implicit as is her answer. She bucks backwards into his hands pressing them harder against the injuries. She hisses in delight.

“Show off,” Cullen mutters tying a sweet little bow just over her ass. “ _Precious Girl_ .” He grumbles, hands holding her, rooting her in place to bring her ass flush against his crotch, “Do not let _anyone_ pull this loose.”

She bends forward, almost in half, assuming her ‘position’ as though Ser had uttered his favorite command to ‘present’. 

“You jest, little girl, don’t test me.”

Evelyn keeps bending, fingers brushing aside the slit in the fabric of her gown to expose gartered leg.

Where a jeweled knife rested in the band of the stockings.

Evelyn bends back like a cracked whip, and wheels on him to press the dulled iced knife to his throat.

“You really think you’re in position to give me commands _soldier_ ?”

It is a struggle without confrontation, their wills pushing and pulling against one another. Thrill saturates them both, heat flares in both of their chests. It is a rare thing indeed when Serah and Ser play at the same time.

She drags the knife in a long line against his throat where a sharper knife would have literally killed him, all it does is leave a bright red line that throbs and stings and will bruise and will show and he loves it.

And while she exsanguinates him, lets his lust bleed all over her, he drags his fingers against the welts he’s made in her backside, the tops of her thighs, digging new pain out of old marks that make her moan.

It is testament to her power, her care, and her love that she does not jump when the knock sounds. There is a knife to her beloved’s throat, dull as it may be sudden movements still bleed. It is testament to his _trust_ that he also does not jerk away, remaining still, the claws at her ass turning back into soothing, smoothing hands. He runs his palm over the scars, smothering the delightful burn he’s put there.

“You coming? I mean like leaving the room?” Bull asks, words muted by the closed door to their suite.

The Ball was held at a minor palace of the Empress, something in the countryside she uses when Val Royeux grows too tiresome. Some say it’s a scandalous and tacit acknowledgment of the sin that goes on for such an affair, that she engages in it, often times with her elven lover Briala. But the Empress is safe from such claims, actual or imagined. Anyone present at such an event has to be invited, so any of her accusers would have to be on the same guest list, their hands too bound by rope and instruction to hurl any stones.

“It’s open.” Cullen calls, all Cullen again, Ser slipping to just under his skin but present and ready to provide instruction should the whim overtake him. He gives a parting squeeze to her behind, noting with delight the shudder that ripples in her flesh as he does.

She slips the dagger back home to the inside of her thigh, higher than it really needs to be, the curled and jeweled handle able to barely brush against her mound if she’s sitting, standing, or walking just the right way. Precious girl flashes him a grin that better belongs on his Serah’s face.

Oh this was going to be fun.

**

Vivienne lingers long enough to escort them to the dealer’s hall then disappears behind a door one must flash a pin to get through (curiously shaped like the seal used to stamp the invitation). Guards in impressive armor flank the door to dissuade anyone from trying to force their way in.

Behind the door, Vivienne greets a woman she hadn’t seen since Bastien died, his wife. They make small talk, they mourn their love, then Duchess Nicoline asks a very private question.

Vivienne declines with no offense taken but when the shadows of disappointment cross the Duchess’s face Vivienne amends her answer.

“My dear, my duties for the Inquisition prevent me from taking up your offer. However, that does not mean we cannot play here, once more, for old time’s sake.”

Nicoline smiles, heart lightened after so many months of grief, she sinks to her knees.

And awaits Mistress’s command.

**  
Eclectic is definitely the correct word to describe the ball. All kinds, all tastes, all forms, all shapes converge here without the slightest hint of reproach or disgust. And she’s glad that nothing she’s seen has caused any negative reactions. Certainly there are things she avoids, the different rooms have doors draped in colored silk to denote what lies within. She stays away from the yellow and brown doors but makes a mental note to visit the red door later.

For now she mills about the vendor’s hall with Cullen, Dorian, and Bull, the coins in her purse jangling, a siren’s song calling her to spend them.

Learning experience indeed. Cullen learns, as he peruses a stall of metal and leather goods from Orzammar, that he does not like the look of the hoods or gags the merchant tries to sell him. He prefers to see her face in the throes of her pain. Prefers to hear her screaming. He has long given up any embarrassment over the stares he gets in those mornings after, this arrangement of relationship actually proving to be beneficial to him and his training of recruits. 

“If he does this to someone he _loves_ ,” they whisper. “ _What will he do to us?”_

He prefers to let the misconception lie rather than take pains to explain to his doe-eyed recruits that it is precisely because he _loves_ her that he is able to inflict such beautiful damage upon her.

Speaking of…

He lets his stare linger on the long braided leather implement. Like a whip but much much shorter, and the fall was split into two thongs of a thick, tough hide.

“Ser likes the quirt does he?” The merchant booms shoving the device into his hands. “Go on, give it a snap!” 

He does, the pop isn’t quite so loud as his favored whip but it makes a nice snapping noise. Perhaps against flesh the pop would be doubled, perhaps he could figure a way to make the falls strike one after the other--a two for one sensation she wouldn’t expect.

“I wonder.” He tries flicking it against his forearm, not quite managing to get the desired effect.

A gloved hand reaches for another device of the same type. “Careful now, quirts handle differently than whips, you cannot wield them the same way. Like that, you would have stripped skin from flesh and flesh from bone. Try it like this.”

The man, the elven man Cullen notices. Even underneath tight black leathers, and black leather gloves, underneath a smooth silver mask that covers the whole face lapis lazuli grooved in intricate lines throughout, he could tell this man is elven.

The man snaps the quirt and produces two distinct pops of sound. “There are techniques to hurt and techniques to wound. Careful that you do not confuse the two.”

There is hidden history in the voice, and familiarity too. 

“You sound like someone well versed in both.”

A light chuckle sounds from behind the full mask, the man places the quirt back down upon the table, a red ribbon tied around his wrist and Cullen knows he knows the voice now.

But says nothing.

“I am...or I was...I’m not wholly sure which just yet. She...she clears some of that mud.”

The man dips his head in another direction, to a human woman with a bird of prey mask swooping across the top half of her face, red feathers jutting from the sides. The woman laughs, bright and loud, as she electrifies a metal rod with her magic, cooing gleefully at the sparks she makes.

“I...I cannot seem to explain how one kind of pain helps eradicate another.”

“It does,” Cullen agrees, though at a loss for proper explanation as well. The Elven man follows the lion’s gaze to a woman sampling the knives at a cutlery booth. She stands oddly, legs crossed at the thighs while she examines a very pretty dagger with a looped end she twirls casually around her index finger.

She knows she's being watched.

The elven man hears the lion’s gulp and smiles under his mask. “She is formidable.”

“Words lightly put, and your…”

“Wife,” the man supplies, spoken like a word he just now learned the definition of. There is pride in his tone, bewilderment too, but the elven man in the blue veined mask looks at the lion to see naked admiration, possibly jealousy.

“Your wife is equally formidable.”

The man cocks his head, the humor clear in his response. “Words lightly put.”

“Thank you for the tip.” The lion nods.

“Of course,” The ghost answers. “One hopes you both find it useful.”

**

He makes his purchase and declines when the merchant offers to have his son enchant the quirt with an elemental property of his choosing. 

There will be plenty of fire in her flesh without actual fire as it is, especially now that his masked friend has shown him how to properly use it to its best potential. He secrets his purchase away, promising the vendor to pick it up later, though honestly he very much desires to use it right away. There's a fire in his blood, sparked by his conversation, he’s stupidly in love and wants to show her, make her feel it, wear her out with it and himself alongside.

He finds her, readies himself to drag them back to their rooms when…

“Look! Look!” A boyish voice cuts clear through the din of mingled voices and muffled moaning coming from behind the sealed doors of the various playrooms. A man in a griffon mask, one wing flaring on the right side of his face holds up a….

She is standing at a very popular booth, Wicked Wyvern the banner says, its display bearing a very anatomically _incorrect_ mascot, it's...cock... flared at the head, erect, and dripping little heart shapes that try and fail to evoke humor.

“They have griffon cocks!” The man in the mask cries happily, without an ounce of decorum. His enthusiasm bounces harmlessly, ineffectually off the woman beside him--clad similarly in grey and blue and a griffon’s mask except her wing flares on the left. 

“Yes,” the woman answers restraining herself. “They do.”

“Well it's a damn sight better than the mabari don't you think?”

“I happen to enjoy the mabari.” She says defensively, holding close the implement in her hand, a phallus with a pointed tip and an obscenely large bulge at the base.

“If you like our mabari miss,” the vendor starts, smelling an upsell. “Consider our new model the Dread Wolf. Very popular among the elves!”

The woman scoffs ignoring him and his much larger lupine cock with an absurd knot that would only fit in any orifice after a judicious and liberal application of lubricant and patience. She turns to her partner. “Do you like this one kit?” 

‘Kit' nods, panting a little, or at least that's what it sounds like.

The woman makes the purchase for her kit and tugs on his tunic, fingers looping under what looks like a concealed chain and leads him away.

To the brown door where the animal noises are coming from.

“Make a purchase?” Evelyn slides up to him, twirling a new dagger around her fingers. It’s dull like her other one, and it smokes too, but a quick sniff and he knows it’s fire that enchants that blade and not ice.

Cullen stiffens, thinking about what such a weapon would do to him. His cock hardens, his thoughts fuzz at the edges like linty socks, and before he can enact his plan to take her away, tie her to a wall, and beat the pleasure into her, Serah is leading him away.

To the room with the door draped in red ropes.

She remembers questioning Vivienne about this, why red for this door and white for the other.

“Well if that room was red, my dear, how would you see the blood?”

They stay away from the white door.

**  
There are rings bolted to every free surface, ropes looped through them or waiting to have ropes looped through them. People are trussed and dressed, bound and blind at the mercy of their partners or open to any passers-by if that’s their thing. 

He is not uncomfortable within the room, the sight of other couples and groups indulging in their pleasures around him didn’t bother him like he thought. Serah has got her hand on his wrist, her other idly spinning and flipping and manipulating her new toy. 

He’s having a hard time noticing anything else.

There is a lit dias in the center of the room, away from the corners and edges where others play. This was meant to be a show and it is treated as such, chairs encircling the stage where a dwarf subjects their partner, an elven man, to abject delight.

They don’t sit. She does not sit and so he cannot, standing near her, at her leisure.

Her mercy.

“Good soldiers are observant. _Watch_ .”

She doesn’t need to whisper, the moaning and screaming in the room is enough to make even shouted conversation unheard, but she whispers and he hears it and it sparks magic in the back of his head.

He swears she’s a secret mage, has some kind of Maker blessed talent. When her words are just barely above audible he just _vibrates_ from the base of his skull down to his toes. He melts, Serah makes him melt and she doesn’t have to touch him.

He watches, as instructed, as the dwarf ties a blue dyed rope around the torso of their partner. Their gaze is intense, concentrated, the myriad distractions in the room not enough to pull their gaze from their hands and the naked waist and legs of a man they refer to simply as ‘beloved’. 

“Kneel for me, beloved.” They say, twirling a green cord in their hands as though the dwarf were trying to decide what to do with it.

“With you,” Serah purrs to him, but he cannot avert his eyes, he has been commanded to watch, so his face is forward. There is movement in his periphery, Serah, she drags the knife lightly across his stomach. “With you, soldier, I wouldn’t hesitate. I would know exactly what to do.”

Serah does. 

Serah always knows.

The good soldier watches, is attentive while Serah speaks.

Serah would make him kneel, just like elf is. Make him kneel naked, an assortment of ropes before him. 

 

Serah starts with his torso. The way others are elegant in their handwriting, in their dancing or singing, she is elegant in her ties. The knots she wends around him create patterns in his flesh, and when she pulls, the ropes bite into his skin and leave their marks. He can trace the lines of her love in his flesh days later. 

Serah makes art of him, he who thought he was nothing. 

He has been commanded to watch so he does, her face, studies its concentration, its intensity. He watches as she undoes a knot, it is too tight, when she makes him bend for her it will _wound_ and not _hurt_ . It must be redone.

“You like this don’t you soldier?” She asks him, and he’s in the room again, watching the dwarf and not her. His cock is achingly hard now, and her breath is hot against his neck. “Report, soldier.”

Her hand is on him now, going straight for the core of him. She palms his cock through his breeches and slides up, then down, then up again.

“I see a dwarf...tying…”

She squeezes him gently and the words evaporate on his tongue. “ _Re. Port. Sol. Dier.”_

She places the flat of the heated blade on his cock, the linen and cotton and wool of his trousers diffusing the heat.

“You, Serah.”

Serah has his chest bound now, when she pulls on the loose edge of the rope everything tightens. She does not bind his eyes, and never wraps rope around his neck. Those sins are unforgivable but every other sin is celebrated. Like the silk cloth she produces to bind around his cock. She wraps his erection, nothing fancy, like taking a ribbon or scarf and looping it around one’s forearm. She knots the cloth under his balls, tight enough to hold back any release, tight enough to keep release at bay for a good long while.

Serah takes her mouth and blows on the silk, the heat spreading around him feeling like…

The warm knife she has pressed to him.

“Very good. Very good my soldier.”

The dwarf has their partner bent now, face down, ass in the air, legs bent wide by a carven wooden bar to which their partner’s ankles are lashed.

“You want to be that elf. You want me to tie and bend you like that. What else do you want me to do soldier? At ease.”

The command releases him from his previous one to watch, he turns his face to her and she can see his eyes are now more pupil black than amber gold. It is her thrill that she has him so helpless, so wanting so publicly.

The at ease command allows him to move, there is a reason she did not permit them to sit. He begins to move, grinding his cock against her thigh. His breathing increases, he starts to pant quietly as he ruts against her leg.

“Serah…”

In his fantasies she has him bent now.

“Drill position.”

Serah binds him at the forearms, double column, a tie he is familiar with, but she leaves spaces between each row of rope so his skin pokes through.

He does not question the variance, not his place.

But Serah knows because Serah always knows his mind like this and demonstrates her intent by taking her new knife, her new toy, and dragging it in the free exposed spaces. The sharp, heated, pricks break him, he moans, wantonly, unashamed.

His ankles are spread by a carven wooden bar, ass exposed. And as he lay, she lays on top of him, the top half of her body draped over his back, her lips on his ears. 

She whispers.

The ropes, her weight, and her whispers combine to form a sea of sensation. His skin hums, the exertion of the position his muscles require him to hold make him tremble. The ropes bite and burn him. Serah’s voice makes him tingle. His mind is fed stimulus after stimulus and his brain is trying and failing by degrees to process it all.

Soon, soon it will be overcome.

He will be swallowed whole, detached and separated from his flesh, broken apart.

And freed.

Her words are nothing, they mean nothing now. At first she whispered to him his more favored parts of the Chant.

“Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls.  
From these emerald waters doth life begin anew.  
Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you.  
In my arms lies Eternity.”

Then she did it in Orlesian.

And again in her patois that sounds like Orlesian but not quite, it makes his cock leak with how arousing those words are in that language and in her mouth.

He lost track after that, brain unable to process all the feelings and lock down spoken word. They sound like mumblings, gibberish, but she’s speaking love poems to him as she lays across him, casually pulling tight the ropes that bind his chest.

“Come back to me soldier, you aren’t dismissed just yet.” She’s slipped a thigh between his own now, helping him as he grinds against her. “Is that what you want soldier? Do you want me to make you come here, as you watch that dwarf bind their partner so prettily while imagining exactly what I’m going to do to you?” Her thigh is maddening, at this point he’s so far gone it feels better than her cunt clamped around him. A little more and he’ll spill all over himself. Oh Maker, a little more…

“Or are your desires more base, soldier, like a common infantryman? You just want me to drop and put my lips around your cock. Is that it? Hike my skirts and let you slip inside me? You can. I’ll let you fuck me here. I’d think you’d like letting people watch you come inside me, watch your seed drip down my thighs when you’re done. Tell me soldier, what you want your Serah to do, how you want your Serah to make you come? _Speak_ .”

“Serah...Maker...Serah.”

The sensations are maddening. The tingling in his spine, the throb in his muscles, the burn in his skin from the ropes, but Serah knows him, maddening is not quite bliss and she intends for him bliss.

She dangles her hands in front of his face so he can see the match she strikes on the ropes that bind his wrists. Watches her take the flame to the red candle. He is mesmerized watching the flame dance on the wick.

Melt the wax.

She spills it in the gaps on his wrists and he jerks screaming, finally, _finally_ overloaded. He wriggles and writhes but her weight on his back holds him still. She _never_ ties him _to_ anything, never ties him down, another unforgivable sin, but she can restrict and hold him like this, an advantage she pushes just a bit a she spills the wax down his back.

Her encouragements always break through his fog, when he can’t tell her words, he can always tell her praise.

“Good soldier, such a beautiful soldier.”

The wax burns like needle pricks, hot and sharp for a moment before the burn dulls to a tender warmth that combines with the rest of the sensation in his flesh to...

He screams again.

 _The knife._

The hot, dull knife, she takes it to him like a razor and shaves, scrapes him clean.

It kills him.

With several little deaths.

That pull him whole from whatever existence this is and places it in another.

He still hears her praises, they still tingle, bounce around in his skull. He can still feel, _Maker_ can he feel it when her oil slicked fingers tease and test around the tight pucker of his ass.  
Feels it when they breach him slowly, working him open.

He is slack, he sags, still holding the drill position though because he is a Good Soldier. Under her magicless magic he is loose and loud, he begs enthusiastically for more. 

“Serah, Serah, let me come, let me come. Serah _pleaase_ !”

He mewls in voices that only come out like this.

Her fingers, (only two, like this three might be too much, Serah always knows) pump slowly, then faster, then faster, until he is _throwing_ his hips back against her, reaching for more pleasure, sensation, feeling.

“Serah, I’m coming, Serah, Maker, Ev-!”

She pulls her thigh away from his crotch and the _sound_ he makes is the stuff of dreams.

“Ask me, Cullen. Just ask.” She remains close, her hands on his chest, the blade gone Maker knows where. “Ask.” She repeats.

And he steps away from her.

Not because he’s embarrassed or reluctant about having her here and now on the floor balls deep. But they both know if he denies, _controls_ his needs now, when they are alone again, she will make him fly.

“No.”

Evelyn breathes this ecstatic sigh, so pleased. She would honestly be pleased either way, to wait or to be made a spectacle of as the dwarf gives a final heart stopping push to the phallus spearing their partner, making the elven man cry out as he paints the wooden dias in his seed.

Either way, she’s happy, but his _control_ makes her happier. That is what she gives him, control.

“Oh my sweet sweet soldier. You are so...hah...good soldier, well done. Well done. Now, I think you need a break. Time to think about what you really want. Go wander, see a show, learn something. And think about how when we're together again, how I'm going to give you what want and more.”

They take another step apart. The exhibition is done, the partons clap and whistle their approval, those who don’t have something in their mouths.

“I hope I don't need to tell you how you are not allowed to come in our absence. I'll know, and I'll be displeased.” 

He gulps and takes a deep breath, willing his powerful erection to wilt just a little bit. In his fantasies, she made him explode again and again. In the reality, he’s only tipped barely at the edge.

“Of course Serah.”

She walks from him, deliberate in the sway of her hips, the bow he tied swaying with her like a taunt and a promise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Kinks, let me show you them.

She has to catch her breath once she’s outside. Lean against a wall to quell her racing heart, to swallow down the tingle between her legs and the conviction in her heart that _screams_ at her to return to the red room, lash Cullen’s arms together, and fuck him until the Maker turns His Face back to Creation. **  
**

It’d be easy.

So easy.

He’s probably still standing where she left him, taking deep breaths that smell like sex and rope and the fragrant oils people use to make their flesh slick and their desires run high. He’s trying to gain a hold of himself, gain _control_ , when she barges back inside, freezing him in place like a deer caught in her arrow’s sight.

He bears her kiss like a holy burden, nearly crushed under the weight of her teeth and her nails and her force. She pushes him until he’s flat against one of the walls, his loud grunt enough to disturb the two women next to them.

A dark haired woman lifts her head from a thatch of ginger girls, her mask pushed up and back enough to reveal a glistening mouth but not enough to reveal identity. Her partner is balanced precariously on one leg while the other is tied ankle to thigh and held aloft by a third rope high above her head. She looks at them curiously, head tilted to the side in what looks like amused contemplation, but a mewling moan from her partner.

“Columbe, _Je t’implore._ ”

And the woman goes back to her meal.

It's a fantasy, so she doesn’t have to bother with removing his clothes or tying his hands. She’s got him where she desires him, chest wrapped in ropes, wrists tied behind his back, hands free to scrape against the wall.

The dark haired woman has inspired her, and Evelyn sinks to her knees before him and his aching cock like penitent come to worship.

She is his Andraste but today she is the one praying.

On her knees,

With her lips,

Around his cock.

The dark haired woman laughs, the humming chuckle vibrating against the tasty cunt her lips are sealed to. She pulls her head away, earning another agonized whine from her partner.

“I would see,” her voice is thick with lust and Antiva. “Which of us has the better tongue?”

Evelyn pops off him with a lewd smack, Cullen grunts but his sounds melt into a long moan as her hands take up the work her mouth left behind.

“You've been at your task longer.” Evelyn argues even as Cullen's nails scratch the wall behind him, as his hips jerk fighting the urge to _buck_.

“Have I? You were undoubtedly putting in your own work during the show.” The woman purrs.

She's playful and slow working two fingers inside her partner, pausing to swipe her thumb against the redhead’s swollen and well attended button of flesh above her cunt.

“The stakes?” Evelyn asks, interrupting her sentence to lick the crown of Cullen’s cock like a spoonful of snow cream.

“Pride.” The lady answers,

And that's prize enough.

Yet even though pride is on the line, it doesn't mean the two women were working toward the fastest possible climax.

No.

The quickest way to make her man shout stars would be to press a pair of fingers beyond that tight puckered hole of his and curl. Likewise, the lady on her right need only do similar, but with her tongue instead.

But no.

This isn't about the fastest tongue but the _bette_ r one, a subjective topic no doubt, difficult to judge fairly.

But then again.

They both know that.

The redhead strangles on a scream of broken Orlesian curses, gushing her pleasure into the Antivan’s open and eager mouth.

Screams Evelyn hardly hears for the wet squelching sounds she makes bobbing on her lover’s cock. And all noise fades as she cues into his tightened breathing, his almost pained whimpering, knowing just how long it will take, how hard she needs to suck and swallow to get him to…

Ah…

_Ah!_

“Congratulations. Your nightingale began her begging first.”

The Antivan takes a handkerchief and wipes her smiling mouth. “Yes, but your lion had the more impressive climax.”

She offers a fresh handkerchief to Evelyn to wipe the pretty splatters of his seed off her face, intentionally spilled on her cheek and throat. Cullen’s constant litany of soft curses evidence of the vision’s powerful effect. There is a distinct note of longing in her voice, like she wishes she had the silk’s job.

“Wait” she breathes, voice a delicate and heady whisper, asking for that job with a tender “May I?” and an even more tender touch to her face.

Evelyn doesn't know if she allows it, leaving that fantasy in a fog behind her as she leans away from the wall.

The woman ambles, distracted, another fugue settling upon her as she makes her way to another exhibition room.

This room’s for groups, every available space occupied, as though the Maker took a pile of flesh and cast them into a sea of dark colored silks that will need to be thrown out in the morning.

She's struck hard in the gut by another fantasy, stealing the breath from her in a low moan. _They_ are in that room, amidst friends and playmates, kisses and caresses traded freely between all. No reservations, just wild affection run rampant, lovingly given and gratefully accepted.

They kneel before an elven man, skin touched with honey, the color and the sweet. His mask is fringed with black crow feathers, a compliment to the stylized tattoos that curl down one side of his body like black smoke.

He has tender hands in both their hair.

“Mis dulces,” he calls them. My sweets. He makes them kneel facing each other while he stands between, cock erect,  proud and eager, jutting from a nest of dirty blonde curls.

Their love, Cullen and her’s, is matched only by their subservient devotion to their Master.

The crow dips the comb in the jar and twists, ensuring ample honey curls in the groves before drizzling it down his chest, the sweetness welling in the cut of his abs and the dip of his bellybutton.  

“Honey, por mis dulces. _Limpie_!” He orders. “And let not a drop waste.”

Cullen is a hard candy, rough, you’ll chip your teeth to get at his sweetness. And he’ll endure long hours of work before he yields his soft, flavored center. Crack him wrong and his sharp edges will cut.

Master Crow knows this.

Expects it.

Cullen descends upon that sweetly dipped body, mouth wide and fangs flashing. He bites hard enough to bruise as he travels from waist to hip, cleaning as instructed. He wraps his lips around the tip of Master’s cock, sucking hard, teeth and tongue scouring Master’s flesh. His hand tightens in Cullen's hair, nails scraping against his scalp as he pushes Cullen's mouth harder against him, wordless in his encouragement.

Evelyn, by contrast, is taffy, tender and soft. Her sweetness is at her surface when she serves like this. She doesn't nip or bite or growl, she licks, dragging her tongue up and down her side of Master's shaft. Her eyes are closed and she moans long and loud like pieces of her are being stretched and stretched and _stretched_.

Master's fingers twine in her hair, gentler in the pressure he applies, but no less sharp.

Hard candy and soft taffy, they work opposite but not opposed to please their master. Every so often their lips or tongues meet around Master's flesh, and he thrusts his hips between them, fucking their mouths together.

“You are so good.” He says dragging his cock in the perfect sheath their mouths make for him. The praise lights sparks in both their heads making Cullen's cock twitch and Evelyn’s pussy drip.

Master’s sweet tooth doesn't abate, he holds their heads still as he thrusts. Withdrawing completely, he swivels and plunges deep in Cullen's mouth, pumping himself a few delicious times as Evelyn patiently waits her turn. 

Her arousal builds impossibly high, breaking past what she thought were her highest limits as she watches Cullen’s throat bulge around Master’s cock. She’s always needed a hand or a tongue, some kind of touch on her body to make her toes curl and her legs shake. But watching him like that, with his debauched expression, half-lidded eyes, flushed face and nearly drooling mouth--the lightest touch of a feather on her shoulder would be more than enough to detonate her body again and again.

Master Crow withdraws, voice trilling with a decadent “ahh" before angling his cock towards Evelyn and rooting himself down her throat.

Someone screams and the thin veneer of imagination shatters just as Master Crow grips himself in hand commanding them both to open wide, tongues out.

The overwarm room is suddenly too hot, she leaves, desire burning in her flesh to the point of agony. She has no gooseflesh only smoldering cinders. The rub of fabric on her skin irritates her, makes her wish she were wearing nothing, nothing but his skin.

Maker have mercy when she's sees him again...

She finds a bench outside the play spaces and the dealer's room. A place for light conversation or simple rest. Somewhere she can gather her wits, compose herself, bank the fires that burn for him. The chaise she chooses is opulent, large enough to seat two in repose, something Vivienne would keep in her boudoir.

“Oh fuck.” She mutters to herself knowing exactly where her filthy mind is going next.

A place where she finally takes the Enchantress up on her standing offer.

_“If in either of you lies the inclination to share, do send your dear templar to me--or you yourself.”_

But they are a package deal, always and forever. If a playmate doesn't want one, they get neither. And so they arrive at her door together, Evelyn’s eyes shining with mischief, Cullen's eyes lowered dutifully to their feet.

Together the two women make the perfect servant out of him, a role they know he's well suited to, eager for. It is his pleasure to pleasure them with his service, a perfect bootblacking, bootlicking, boot _stool_ for his Serah and Mistress.

They make him bend on Mistress’s lush and comfortable carpet, just enough cushion to keep the ache out of his knees while they make him ache in more delicious places. He isn't aware of time anymore, only able to track its passage in the number of times they've made him explode.

5.

Possibly more, numbers have become irrelevant, replaced by pure sensation.

“Look Evelyn, he’s only recently made a mess of my carpet and now he’s ready to do so again.”

His flush is pretty to them both, the novelty of it to they with skins too dark to show their own.

“I wonder what has him so eager? Is it the magic?”

Evelyn’s hand alights upon his cheek, lovingly, proudly, tenderly, delightedly, all the best things in the world she imparts in his skin with her touch. “Answer her,” she commands softly.

He is proud that he's made her proud, and that pride wells in his throat and shines in eyes, in the demure smile she accepts like the gift she knows it is.

“It is…” He mumbles because they make it hard to speak clearly.

“Speak up.” Vivienne corrects.

“It is you.”

“Oh?” Vivienne is flattered and it startles her. It is rare that such naked confession catches her off guard. “Do go on.”

“It is you both.” His wince is not one of pain, but his face scrunches anyway. It is their pleasure to make him watch as they kiss and touch and fondle, drink wine, laugh and giggle while the elegant flick of Vivienne’s wrist works the wooden cock slowly in and out of his lovingly prepared ass.

And the one in Evelyn’s cunt.

And the pulsating warm metal bean nestled right above Vivienne’s own clit.

“It's you both, you are both so…” he shudders, the sleek cock barely nudging the knot of flesh inside him that melts his body and brain. “Beautiful!” He shouts, unable to better elocute what they mean to him and how they make him feel.

Breathing deeply, heavily, Evelyn lets that vision go and settles on what is perhaps her most _subversive_ fantasy of all.

He will put aside the crop.

And she will store the rope.

They will light candles.

And they will lay down among soft sheets and pillows. He will kiss her eyelids and the wide, thick bridge of her nose. She will kiss the scar on his lip and each of his fingertips, will tickle him at his ribs and behind his knees where he’s most vulnerable.

He will tell her she’s beautiful.

And she’ll repeat it all back in one of her 4 languages that makes him shiver in barely contained delight.

They’ll make love with their hands twined and their bodies bound together. He’ll call her name, her true one, and she’ll sound his back, all titles abandoned for this night.  She won’t make him beg and he won’t make her weep. Instead he’ll whisper his wish to see her belly grow with his child before drinking down the delighted cry that particular vision wrings from her.

And, as _always:_

Even with playmates, and violence, cruel words, and debauched deeds,

As _always,_ they make love with nothing but love in the room.

She’s smiling when the man approaches, well and truly lost in the fantasy of rooted seed and rounded bellies, of plain children and ordinary lives. The vision shatters like hot glass in cold water when he speaks.

“And where is your master?”

The words feel like ice in her gut even though his tone is warm. He’s well dressed, immaculately clean, and his mask is simple in it’s elegance, gold gilt with two horns poking akimbo from the forehead.

It takes her a moment to recollect herself. She looks around, searching for indication that maybe she wrought amiss. Was she in a playroom somewhere? The one with the black sash draping the door perhaps? The one where slaves walk around on collars visible and not, where bodies are more objects than people.

No.

This is a community area, common in purpose. There is no play here, a mistake has been made.

“I’m sorry. You must be mista--”

He tsks, the horned man, loud enough to interrupt her speech.

“Don’t you know better, than to raise your gaze to mine, _slave_?”

His tone is still warm, but his icy menace is plainly felt, his words cut at the edges, serrate her comfort.

“Your master must be remiss in his instruction. It’s unfortunate given he was gifted with such an exquisite creature. Such tasty coloring. Like warm chocolate. Mmmm.” He licks his lips and sickness sours Evelyn’s stomach.

He discusses her as though she’s not sitting right there before him. The menace leaves his voice, replaced by something velvet and dark and poisonous.

He looms above her, crowding her into the furniture. There is no clear avenue of escape that didn’t bring her in direct conflict with him, one she is assured she’d lose. Lust and free samples of wine have made her sluggish and slow.

She tried her words again.

“This is not a--”

“Again with your mouthiness pet.” His arms are open and he becomes even bigger, he no longer crowds, he’s _trapping_.

“That's the thing with novices, they're childlike, they lack a _firm hand_.”

She thinks he's going to touch her. He makes her think he will, but withdraws at the last moment and watches the flinch and the shudder vibrate in her skin.

“Were you mine, little darkling bitch, I'd never let you out without proper leash muzzle. Not until you learned your place.”

He is too close. She's untouched but he makes her feel the heat of his breath and the grip of his hands in his threats.

Her word tumbles instinctually from her mouth.

_Stop._

Nothing elegant Iike fancy Orlesian phrases or esoterically out of place words like ‘birthday’ or ‘cockroach'. Cullen knows to stop when she utters just a simple ‘stop'.

But this man is not Cullen, so he doesn't.

“I bet you would enjoy that wouldn't you, little slut?”

Cullen's called her worse and it never stung like that did, his love blunts the barbs and their trust takes the venom out of any sting.

But there's no love or trust here, only a tenderness that rings hollow in her ears and so she's struck with the full force of the slur. It knocks her off balance, makes her hurt, hurt like the word is supposed to.

“I’ll show you what your master lacks. Come with me,” he doesn't wait for her to take or decline his extended hand.

He doesn't get the chance.

Two shouts sound within seconds of each other.

Cullen does not yell, does not need to yell, he commands obedience on the field and in the bedroom and he never needs to be louder than a conversation.

So when he yells “Get away from her!”

The whole world, certainly everybody in that common area, stops to witness. Some even move away from their companions, motivated to obedience by the sound of his voice.

The second cry is the horned man's own, screaming in terror as ice begins to crust around his reaching hand and creep up his legs until he’s frozen from the neck down.

“What is this? Unhand me!”

Cullen shoots past Vivienne, his mask barely hanging on his face. “Are you ok? Did he hurt you?”

He does not yell.

And he does not mostly because he knows that it is Bad for her.

She is shivering when he gets his arms around her, like it is her locked in Vivienne’s ice. Her Fear is upon her, it makes her shake.

He moves, animated by anger, ready to chip the limbs off the horned man like ice chipped from a block with a pick. His Control has fled him, gone, evaporated like water in a firestorm of rage.

But the grip of her nails in his forearm stays him. He remains, keeping his arms tight around her.

Her fear drains.

His control returns.

The horned man, in his violation of the rules, in his disregard of simple trust, allowed one to return and the other to flee.

But he thinks he’s done no wrong.

“We were just in a scene!” He protests through chattering teeth.

Vivienne scoffs and the ice encasing his body grows colder. “ _You_ were in nothing, trying to force something that ought not be.”

Guards in armor arrive at the commotion, Vivienne flashes them the pin on her lapel and they concede, recognizing her authority as one of the Senior Dungeon Mistresses.

“You’re the worst kind of scum. Reading Seven Shades of Silver and fancying yourself some kind of Father Superior. You think there are no rules that govern these kinds of spaces, that it’s all just free reign with kinky sex. Not so!”

She snarls even as the crowd laughs, jeering at the horned man for his egregious faux pas.

“M-m-adam…” his teeth chatter, stuttering his speech.

“Silence! Since you have already violated the rules of this sanctuary and the comfort of my two greatest friends, you will not mind violating yet one more.”

The gathering crowd's laughter hushes quickly as Vivienne rips the man’s mask off revealing a handsome yet plain face, with no aesthetically pleasing feature to recommend him.

“No!” With frozen hands, he cannot hide his face, and all see--and make note.

Vivienne releases him with no more words or consideration, turning to Evelyn and Cullen as the man flees the room, covering his face.

“My dear, are you alright? I'm so sorry this happened to you. We're usually so selective too.”

“I'll be fine.” Her shivering subsides, calming at Cullen's touch. “What will happen to him?”

“He's more than taken care of darling. The masks protect us, but more than that, they signify our respect for each other and the rules we set for everyone's protection and pleasure. Being unmasked publicly by a dungeon master strips you that respect. Shows others you have committed the gravest of offenses. He is anathema now, banned. People will know him and know what kind of person he is.”

“Do you know him?”

“I do not, but if I see his face coming towards me on the street in my public life, I'll know it's time to cross. Worry not my dears, he’ll never darken our doors again.”

Vivienne ushers them away, escorts them personally to their rooms and leaves a page at the door with instructions to fetch whatever they desire. No desire higher than the need to remove their masks that now more stifle than hide.

He asks a million times if she's alright and she answers ‘I'm fine’ in a million different ways. They peel and untie and remove until they are nothing but skin that they press to one another and just breathe in the silence.

“What do you need?” He whispers, finally asking the right question.

“A bath. You. Something to eat.”

The page supplies two of three needs and Cullen knows well how to provide the last.

He guides her to the large copper tub, grasping the egde of her fingertips like a knight escorting a princess. He lays a courtly kiss to her knuckles to cement the imagery, deliberate in his choice of it.

She covers her mouth and the giggle that escapes from it, trying to hide her girlish laugh that he'd rather hear. So he takes the offending hand and kisses that one too, earning him his prize.

“Join me?”

“Of course,” he nods, climbing in after to settle behind her. The water scalds, she bathes in lava he remembers, but for that giggle, all things are endurable.

The day sloughs off in the water, and they forget the masks and fantasies able to only remember the slide of wet skin against one another. Her copper, his gold, her sepia and his sand.

She bathes in lava he remembers, but she scalds him hotter with the kiss she plants on the corner of his mouth. 

“What did you do after I left that playroom?”

“Fight every urge to drag you back to it.”

“Difficult?”

He kisses her, answering her with his lips pressed to hers. “Very.”

“You don’t know,” He continues, he doesn’t pull away to speak, rather he speaks directly into her flesh, interrupting himself with more kisses, down the line of her jaw, up the curve of bone to her ear. “How hard it was to watch you go.”

Evelyn curls her hips and squeezes her thighs around him, brushing her body against him, bringing them _close_ but not _close enough_. “I have an idea.” She teases him in flesh and word. “But tell me more.”

“I wandered the halls and the rooms, I couldn’t focus on anything, I could only remember you, think about all the things I…”

She slides against him again and the words stop like a plug in the bottom of his throat. They abandon conversation for a mouthful of kisses and a handful of caresses before she pulls away from him, “Tell me.”

He answers ‘no’ with a simple shake of his head, gold hair curling loose from it’s styling. “I’ll show you.”

He rises first from the tub and extends his hand to bring her with him. She takes it but squeals when he grabs and pulls and lifts. She is in his arms, carried to the bed like a virgin on her wedding day.

“There are flowers here.” He says as he gently lays her across the bed. The sheets will be wet, but long dried by the time they are ready to sleep.

“And candles?” She questions as he kisses the column of her throat.

“A legion of them.”

She moans his name with his tongue curling about her earlobe.

“Yes, you call my name, and I call yours, _Evelyn_.”

Her name in his mouth makes her shudder, his voice makes her shudder harder.

“I kiss you here.”

And he does, right at her pulse point.

“And here.”

Again, at the curve of her shoulder.

And here.

And here.

And here.

Her thighs close around his head and he can barely hear her entreats for more, and right there, and harder. All he cares to know is her, the scent and taste of her. And all she cares to know is the feel of him, of his tongue inside her and the softness of his curls gripped in her hands.

He stops before he ends her.

And kisses his way back home to her mouth.

“You are _beautiful_.”

“Sa yo se ou kótkót.”

He groans like he’s hurting and he is, for more of her.

Which she lovingly gives and he gratefully accepts.

Their hands twine, their bodies bind.

“You are beautiful, and would be made more so by the swell of my child.”

She gasps and he breathes it.

He calls her name and she hears it.

And as 

_Always,_

They make love with nothing but love in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever.


End file.
